


Song of the Century

by rage_for_love



Series: ¡Viva la Killjoys! (21st Century Danger Days) [1]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Green Day, Green Day - 21st Century Breakdown (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: 21st Century Breakdown, Blood and Injury, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Gen, I'm super uncreative with the tags today, Songfic, killjoys, the start of a Danger Days Frerard series!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 01:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11094345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rage_for_love/pseuds/rage_for_love
Summary: "Sing us a song of the century...."A decade ago, finding a man half-dead and bleeding in the middle of the desert would be a surprising occurrence. Oh, how things change.





	Song of the Century

**Author's Note:**

> The first installment in my Danger Days/21st Century Breakdown series. Enjoy!
> 
> Note: I do not own the lyrics used here. They are from "Song of the Century," and are the sole creative property of Green Day and their affiliates. 
> 
> Warnings: Blood and gore, references to death

_Sing us a song of the century..._

The faint sound of music crackling through an old radio seemed to echo off of the desert's ground. It shouldn't have, since the volume was low, the noise strictly confined to the Trans AM that glided across the orange sand. Still, the melodic noise seemed so loud in contrast to the wasteland's quiet stillness. The sweet sound of it was so out of place as the driver navigated the vehicle through the dead landscape. The red-haired man behind the wheel knew why the melody was so powerful. The zones had been without music for so long. 

 

 _That's louder than bombs and eternity.._ _._

Party Poison couldn't help but find satisfaction in the way the music seemed to fill the desert, breathing some sort of life into the dry land beneath the wheels of his car. He could almost feel it, energy vibrating beneath his feet as he pushed the gas pedal, wanting to go as fast as he could without risking getting himself ghosted. 

 

_The era of static and contraband..._

 

Of course, he knew all of these hopes were wasted; they were illusions, nothing more. Poison had been a rebel all of his life, fire seeming to run through his veins and charge him like a battery. That driving passion was especially useful now, with the world slowly withering away into nothingness, all sterile rooms and buzzing white noise. The leaders of the world were leaving the precious thing they were in charge of to die, and they were on a mission to pull the ones that still had hope down with them. Though that might have seemed like a fine idea to everyone else, Poison wasn't having it. He wouldn't go down without a fight.

 

_That's leading us into the promised land..._

When it began to look as if the world was coming to an end, Poison and his brother left the city with a friend, determined to carry on with their lives after the fires rather than being captured and forcibly numbed. They had seen such a thing happen to their loved ones, friends and family being carried away, pumped with drugs until their eyes were glassy and they were convinced that such a thing was right. So Poison, Kobra, and Jet fled to the desert, knowing it would be dangerous to refuse the things Better Living Industries was trying to sell them. Once they were far enough away, they decided they'd fight back, crafting a rebellion in the back of the abandoned diner they now called home. They let go of the given names they had damn near forgotten and christened themselves with shiny new aliases, vowing they'd bring color back to a world turned monochrome. Still, it all seemed like a stupid fantasy some days, something they were pretending was possible. Still, Poison was good at doing just that: pretending. Pretending that the world was still very much alive. Pretending he wasn't driving around, searching for dead bodies as he hummed along to the radio. 

 

_Tell us a story that's by candlelight..._

There had been a gunfight in the desert the night before. The caricatures of human beings that BL/Ind referred to as Draculoids had gone after a group of escaped patients, shooting down all of them without regrets. None of the patients had survived. The idea made Poison sick to his stomach, and he knew the Dracs probably took all of the bodies away, but he was hanging on to the hope that maybe, they left one or two of them behind. Maybe he could actually honor the lives that had been taken away, respectfully burying the remains beneath one of the stretches of land that grew flowers, mourning the loss of a soul that was trying to stand up for what was right. 

 

_Waging a war and losing a fight..._

Finally, a limp figure came into view, a lump on the ground, covered by cloth. Poison brought the Trans AM to a stop as his breath hitched. No matter how hard he tried, he would never get used to death following him everywhere he went. He couldn't stand seeing sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, lovers, friends, living souls, dead because they wouldn't kneel to authority. Each time, it pained him more and more.  

 

_They're playing the song of the century..._

Poison tried to keep the music going in his mind as he stepped out of the car and neared the body. He could already see the blood, turning the sand crimson, some dried, some looking oddly fresh. Once he was close enough, he fell to his knees beside the figure, the sight of the gore making him dizzy. Beneath the white fabric and gratuitous blood, he could see a man. A man with long dark hair and tattooed hands, a cut mutilating his right cheek, seeming to have been inflicted not by a ray gun, but a knife. "Sick bastards," Poison muttered. Bracing himself, he began to lift the sheet the Dracs had laid over the man in attempt to mask the evidence, prepared to see more mutilation. Instead, he found the gentle rise and fall of the man's chest. He was breathing. He was alive.  

 

_Of panic and promise and prosperity..._

Poison made up his mind quickly. He had to take the man back to the diner with him. He had to give him the chance to heal, to hold on, to live. Leaving the bloody sheet behind, he picked up the man's body, thin and weak, and carried him to the Trans AM. He gently sat him in the backseat, his chest filling with a feeling that, for once, was not painful. In fact, it just might have been hope.

 

_Tell me a story into that goodnight..._

 

He closed the door and walked around to the driver's side. Once in the car, he looked back at the man. Despite his injuries, he looked like a fighter, even in unconsciousness. Poison had hope for that small, tattooed man. He would pull through, and, once he did, he could join he and Kobra and Jet. He'd wake up, and he'd keep running. Poison was sure of it. He reached for the man's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You'll be alright," he said. "I promise." With that, he started the Trans AM up. As he began his drive back to the diner, he turned the radio back on, an inkling of hope for a sad, run down world.

 

 _Sing us a song for me._  

 

 


End file.
